


Big Crack Attack (or, what twasadark has evidently been smoking)

by twasadark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-22
Updated: 2010-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-06 13:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twasadark/pseuds/twasadark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My intention to write a deliciously indulgent hurt/comfort coda to 4.04 turned into crazy crack fic. Eeek!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big Crack Attack (or, what twasadark has evidently been smoking)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current mood:** |   
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**Entry tags:** |   
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_ **Fic: Big Crack Attack** _

Title: Big Crack Attack (or, what twasadark has evidently been smoking)  
Author:[](http://twasadark.livejournal.com/profile)[**twasadark**](http://twasadark.livejournal.com/)  
Genre: Gen  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: Through 4.04   
Note: My thought was to write a delicious little hurt/comfort coda.  Instead, short, bad crack happened.   
Warning: leaving me encouraging comments will only make me want to inflict further crack fics on you.

 

So it’s been a rough night.  Both he and Sam were knocked out and nearly devoured and then Sam had to set that wormy-faced dude on fire, which _stunk_ to high heaven.  Dean finds that driving calms him down almost as good as beer and sex, so he’s happy to hit the road for a bit.  Then Sam vows to give up the whole freaky demon power mojo and the relief Dean feels is chased quickly by eyeball-burning fatigue.   

He pulls over an hour outside of Carthage, Missouri in a little rattrap place whose sign trumpets “Phones in every room!”  The place also has potholes in the asphalt parking lot and a grumpy ass chain smoking attendant at the desk who looks 60 and smells 80.  Whatever the hell that means.  Anyhow, she looks like she hasn’t gotten any in nigh onto twenty years.  Sam says he’s sure she’s really a nice old lady with grandkids and a turbo-charged scooter somewhere around back. 

They get a room on the first floor a few doors down from the office.  Sam hefts his duffel and hauls it inside the room, but Dean doesn’t bother because he wants to check it out first.  They go inside, find bland dingy walls, a TV from the 1950s, orange bedspreads that smell faintly of smoke but not of other, grosser substances, and a bathroom the size of a postage stamp that is blessedly free of werewolves, vampires, and possums.  Cause there was this one time in Punxsatawny where a whole frickin’ _herd_ of those damn things (possums) were camped out in the motel bathtub.  Dean still shivers when he thinks of it. 

“Is it okay?”  Sam asks.  He’s standing in the middle of the room, looking vaguely annoyed. 

“It’ll do,” Dean says.  He’s not fussy, but part of being a big brother means he has first veto rights when it comes to skanky motel rooms.

With a sigh, Sam dumps his duffel on the bed furthest from the door and says, “I’m gonna snag first shower, ‘kay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Dean heads back to the Impala, sees what he thinks might possibly be a scratch on the driver’s side fender and spends a good five minutes peering at it in the dim light before finally deciding that it’s bird shit. 

Dean’s just slung his duffel over his shoulder and is heading toward the motel room when he finds the world listing to one side.  Now, what the hell--?  That’s about the time his face makes rather intimate contact with the concrete door stoop.  Oh, so it’s _not_ actually the world that tipped over.  Just him. 

Everything narrows to a tiny spot of light, and then that flees under a wave of unconsciousness.

\--

Sam gets out of the shower with a terrible craving for potato chips.  Barbeque flavored.  Tangy and just a little sweet, nice and fresh and crisp.  Mmmmmm.  He can almost taste them.  Not one of those tiny little $.99 bags, either.  He’s a big guy.  Hell, yeah.  He needs a bag of potato chips the size of … his head?  Well, something really big, anyhow.  Like his dick.  Heh.  Dean’s not the only one who can be crude.  Sam is a guy, after all.  He just doesn’t say shit like that out loud. 

Anyhow, he hopes this place has a vending machine. 

He wonders where Dean is as he slips his jeans on, jams his hand in the right-hand front pocket, and withdraws a handful of change.  He heads out the door in his bare feet, absorbed in counting the change.  So absorbed that he doesn’t notice the sprawled form of his brother on the sidewalk directly outside their room. 

With a cry, he trips over Dean’s leg, tries to catch himself, and instead steps on Dean’s duffel, which must be stuffed with porno mags or something, because his foot slips and he goes down on his side, cracking his injured skull on the curb and losing consciousness for the second time in as many hours. 

\--

Agnes Martindale hates Missouri.  She also hates Chihuahuas and molasses and the fact that she has to man the front desk at the motel she and Harold own – oh so cleverly named Drive Inn Motel (Harold’s idea, the prick) because _Harold_ is too sick to work anymore.  Years of raging alcoholism have ruined his health.  And speaking of pricks, he can’t even get his up anymore.  No, all he does is sit on his ass in front of the TV, cursing at Keith Olbermann and eating pretzels.  In fact, she can hear the murmur of the TV from their living quarters out back right now. 

When she happens to look out the window and sees the two pretty boys passed out drunk in front of the room they’d rented from her not one hour before, she loses it.  Years of frustration make her grab the broom and run out the door in nothing but her housecoat and slippers.

\--

Dean wakes up to a wild-haired old woman whaling on him with a broom.  

“What the hell?” He cries out, grabbing the broom’s bristles to keep the crazy broad from continuing her assault on he and Sam.

Wait.  Sam?

He vaguely remembers the dizziness and nausea that felled him, but why was Sam—shirtless, with wet, tangled hair—sprawled out next to him? 

“Dude!”  He yelps, shaking Sam’s shoulder.  Sam groans and starts coming around.  The crazy broad – Dean now recognizes her as the grumpy motel attendant – yanks the broom out of Dean’s hand and with a cry of  “drunken college fuckers,” smacks Sam full in the face with the bristles. 

“Hey!” Dean yells at the woman.  “He’s hurt!  Leave him alone!” 

“Hurt, my ass!”  The old hag caws.  She swings the broom with renewed gusto, the droopy flesh of her underarms flapping wildly back and forth.  “I don’t want no drunks in my motel!”

Sam’s trying to sit up and shield himself from attack at the same time. 

“We’re not drunk!”  Dean roars.  “Look, would you just hold on there for a second--”

“Agnes?  What in the Sam Hill are you doing?”  The voice is from a dumpy, pot-bellied old man wearing a stained wife beater t-shirt and boxer shorts.  He’s gawking at them from the threshold of the motel office door.

Agnes pauses, momentarily distracted.

Sam’s somehow managed to get to his feet.  He knots his hands in Dean’s jacket and says, “Come on!”

While Agnes turns to look at the old dude, Sam pushes Dean through the door to their motel room and slams it loudly.  The two of them collapse against the door, breathing hard.

“Harold!”  The old bitty screams.  The sound of her nasally voice is clear even through the door.  “Get the master key.  I don’t want no more drunks in my motel!” 

“I told you!  We’re not drunks!”  Dean hollers.

“Let me handle this,” Sam says in a low voice to his brother.  Then, he takes a deep breath and projects through the door, “Look, Mrs. … uh, ma’am.  What my brother’s saying is true.  You see, he got hit in the head earlier this evening and must have fainted outside our door and I tripped over him because I had to have some potato chips--”

“Shaddup!”  Her cry is followed by a thumping noise that can only be the broom smacking against the motel room door.

Sam shuts up, and the two of them rest against the door, trying to decide on the correct course of action.  After a moment, Dean says, “Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“Remember how you promised me – mere hours ago – that you would no longer be using your powers to send demons to hell?”

“Um.  Yeah?”

The old lady, winded by all the vigorous exercise, nevertheless starts wheezing expletives at them again.

“How’s about you start that tomorrow, not tonight?”

 


End file.
